Sweet, were you no longer of the earth
from what dread altar would arise my prayer?
Where should my needle seek its constant North?
What nucleus my orbitry inhere?
Then of what use the Byzant nightingale
were there no bored, jeweled hand to wind?
Really, of what usea curling tail
were there no pretty pig to wind behind?
And what if I no longer breathed in life?
Who should sing you then, and sacrifice
until the fire-blasted altar bore
rich stains of wine and thickly-clotted gore?
Who so freely barter Love for Scorn?
Was ever such a perfect marriage known?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem